Shipping Up To Boston
by awfulwriter666
Summary: In Early 20th century Boston, the daughters of two immigrant families from two very different places meet and become the very best of friends. Rizzles
1. Another Irish Drinking Song

Chapter 1. Another Irish Drinking Song

Another day, another funeral, Maura thinks as she pulls another pint for the widower's son. He'd just buried his mother, but already the rogue had his eye on a skirt, and looked liable to fall over on the dark-haired beauty as he followed her around the room with his maw agape. "You may want to sit down, Colm," says Maura's father in an even voice, helping the young man to lower himself to a stool.

"Ach, she's a dream, she is," Colm slurs, spilling his beer over his chin without regard.

"She's off limits to you, boyo. How would your poor mother, God Rest Her, feel about ye marrying an Italian?"

Maura silently dries a glass, grateful for beer goggles and loud music keeping the attention away from her.

"Aye, she's Catholic, i'n't she?" His eyes sweep the woman's well-worn but very well-fitting dress, "Baptized 'afore God and Pope?"

"I won't be tellin' ye again, Colm Murphy. Hands off," Paddy's Doyle's voice is dark that time, and even the inebriate knows better than to question him again. Colm stumbles up from the bar to find a nice Irish girl to bother, and Paddy turns back to his daughter. "Why don't you go to bed, wean? You've school tomorrow. Tell your Ma I'll be up in a mo'."

The young woman gratefully throws off her apron before he's even done speaking and gives her father's cheek an affectionate peck. "Good night, Da," she calls over her shoulder as she all but runs out of the kitchen door, leaving her father laughing to himself in her wake.

...

Jane curses in Italian and smacks away another grimy paw. She only agreed to join him so that she wouldn't have to spend her evening cooking or doing needlepoint or something so tedious she could never sit still long enough to do it properly.

That and her father is letting her drink wine, and not just with dinner. However, as one of two women present, she's become something of an attraction to the throng of increasingly intoxicated men. They dance around her, slurring songs in a foreign language and tripping over one another. At one point, there was nearly a fistfight for her attention, which was quickly diffused by Mr. Doyle. Now, the two sit arm in arm, singing the jaunty tunes in only the way that drunken Irishmen can.

Rolling her eyes at the revelry, Jane turns her empty glass toward the bar, disappointed to find Paddy's daughter had vacated the bar. "How's about I drive you home? There's no more liquor to be served, and they've cleaned me out of beer, so it won't be long now afore each a one of thems is on the floor," when he chuckles, she can't help but to join him, the wine still warm and fuzzy in her brain.

"Thanks, Mr. Doyle, but what about my pop?" she searches the room for her father, who isn't anywhere to be seen.

"Tell ya what, lass, I'll bring your da home in the mornin'. Yer ma deserves the break."


	2. Sinfionetta

Chapter 2 Sinfonietta

Paddy grabs the door for Jane, and the teen gets in. Mr. Doyle is one of the only people in town with an automobile, having bought it after decades of scrimping and saving every penny he made in construction work.

"So, you start school in a month, that's exciting," the car snorts awake and putters for a moment. "Are you excited?"

Jane considers his question, trying to remember the right words, while also being grateful that he spoke more slowly to her than his Irish friends. "I'm…nervous. It's scary, a new school, not knowing anyone."

"You'll have your brothers with you. And my daughter, Maura. She's a little older than you, but she'll have your back. Promise."

The idiom doesn't sail completely over her head, but as the tires bounce along the cobblestone road, the rather silly image of Maura Doyle grasping Jane's spine entered her mind. She laughs the thought away. Maybe she's a bit drunker than she'd thought she was.

Paddy returns her smile, albeit confusedly, but continues. "I bet you two will be the best of friends. No doubt in my mind."

Jane nods, getting the gist of his sentiments. Though she'd never say it to his face, she finds Maura very odd. Not cold, or mean, or rude, of course, but just…odd. Too painfully shy to hold up a conversation, even if Jane's English is a little broken, and always distracted.

Paddy stops the car in front of the Rizzoli's apartment, again getting out of the car to open Jane's door for her. "Should I pick up you and your brothers for school?" his tone is sincere and fatherly, and she nearly finds herself nodding.

"Our mother wants to walk with us. Thank you, though, Mr. Doyle," her small curtsy makes him chuckle.

"Maybe next time, then. Good night, Little Rizzoli," he pats her head awkwardly before turning back to his car and driving off.

After he's rounded the corner, Jane shakes her head to clear the rest of the leftover wine clouds and makes her way upstairs.

…

"Good night, Mammy," Maura calls over her shoulder to her mother, who is standing over the sink basin with a cigarette between her lips.

Constance turns toward her voice, stirring the steaming dishwater with her hand boredly, "Where's your father?"

"Mr. Rizzoli is quite drunk, so Da was making sure his daughter got home safely," Maura's honey-colored curls pop back through the door.

"Did you eat?" Connie drains the water and turns to face her daughter, putting her cigarette out.

"Not hungry," the girl mumbles as she leaves the room again. "Good night, Mammy."

Constance sighs deeply, shaking her head at the dishes, "Good night, lovey."


	3. Irish Pub Song

||What's up, it's the pos writer formerly known as BayouWizzard (S.N. Miller is my real name and not a horrible pseudonym, I have a terrible name, I'm sorry) with an unwanted author's note.

I'm kind of notorious for short chapters and going two years between updates, so this time I'm going to force myself to write as much and as often as I can. That's why the chapters are going to be short, it's how I keep my thoughts in line on account of being a shit writer. BUT now I have Microsoft word on my phone and on my computer, therefore excuses for a lack of updates are null and void. If I can get out a chapter every day, that'd be magical as all get out.

That's all for now, y'all ¬¬-Miller||

Chapter 3. Irish Pub Song

"Will ye geddof yer feckin' high horse an' get away from MY pub!" Maura's eyes fly open at the sound of her father's shouting out the hall window. "Ye bleedin' cows!"

A confused Maura props herself up to find her eight-year-old sister staring out of their window. "It's the Temperance League," Cailyn glances over her shoulder at Maura. "They're putting signs up on the pub."

"Signs?"

"For the eighteenth ammembent. Daddy says they've already made it nigh impossible for him to sell a pint on this street, but now they wanna make it illegal altogether."

"WHY DO ALL YE UPPITY BITCHES WANNOO TAKE THE BREAD OUTTA MY CHILDREN'S MOUTHS?!"

Maura winces at the unsavory word. He only ever used it when referring to the Temperance League, never turning it on Constance or even the suffragettes, whom he supports wholeheartedly. "Amendment," she corrects her sister without fully realizing she's doing it, turning back over and closing her eyes.

If the pub closes, her father will no longer have a job, and everything he's worked for will be lost. He'll have to go back to bricklaying, and her mother will have to take in washing, and Maura will have to leave school in order to help her…they were never rich, but her father could afford them small luxuries like a high school education. And he'd have to fire Mr. Rizzoli! Their family was just off the boat, Mr. Rizzoli was barely able to speak English when her father hired him. Paddy is paying him enough so that his children can go to school instead of working to help support their family. Nobody in their neighborhood really understands the friendship between Paddy and Mr. Rizzoli, but Maura finds it endearing.

Her thoughts are punctuated by her father's slippered footsteps running down the hall, punctuated by the door slamming behind him. A few seconds later, Colin runs into his sisters' room to join Cailyn at the window. "Daddy's gone to tear down all of their posters," informs he, his strawberry curls bouncing as he speaks. "Says they haven't a right to be marking his property with their propapanda."

"Propaganda," Maura mumbles.

"She's in a teenaged mood," Cailyn quotes their mother's explanation for Maura's quiet moodiness.

In truth, their older sister's despondency came about when thoughts of Mr. Rizzoli's possibly impending unemployment turned to his daughter. Jane.

If Mr. Rizzoli loses his job, then Jane wouldn't be able to go to school, either, and Maura won't get to see her every day. They've never exchanged words, but the shy blonde has always found Jane's company comforting to the point that she wishes she could come up with a viable excuse for seeing her more often. Then, when her father informed her that Jane would be going to her school, the excuse made itself.

Before she knows it, she's on her feet, moving with the same righteous rage that made her father run after the Temperance League. As of a few weeks ago, all of these women will be able to vote on their 18th amendment, and if she doesn't get out of bed now, she will probably never get to see Jane again.

That can not happen, under any circumstances.

…

If Jane were a boy, this is what she'd look like, thinks Maura, blankly taking in the features of the child who'd opened the door. From inside the house, a woman wonders loudly who would be calling so early, and Maura's tongue glues itself to the roof of her mouth.

Angela Rizzoli appears over the boy's shoulder, "Oh, it's Signor Doyle's daughter! Come, come inside, Jane and I are making gnocchi, come, come," before she can argue, the woman's hands are on her shoulders, steering her into the house.

At the sight of the silent girl, Jane allows a small laugh. "Maura, your face is as red as this tomato sauce," she teases, but quiets when the girl stiffens even more.

"What brings you over, dear?" Angela doesn't even look away from Maura to smack a dish rag at Jane, which Maura can't help but laugh at.

The sound nearly throws Jane off her feet.

Angela notices, and joins in, the little blonde's joy contagious. "Come over here, maybe you will be better at shaping the gnocchi than Jane."

Without question, Maura joins them, well aware of Jane's dark chocolate eyes following her movements. The warmth of Jane's gaze is nearly palpable on her skin as Angela shows her how to form the dough.

"Your first time ever making the Italian food, and already your attempts are better than Jane's!" Angela jokes, and Jane's grumbly response resonates in Maura's belly.

"Can I come every day?"

Both women's eyes widen at the question, and after a few moments of odd silence, Angela envelopes Maura in a floury hug.


End file.
